


To Have a Home

by LitNerd28



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Friendship, Gen, Twins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 15:20:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11233737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LitNerd28/pseuds/LitNerd28
Summary: All Harry and Lydia Potter know is their miserable life with the Dursleys, their horrible aunt and uncle and their abominable son, Dudley. The twins share bedroom in the tiny closet at the foot of the stairs, and they haven’t had a birthday party in eleven years. They only valuable thing they have is each other. But everything they know changes when two mysterious letters arrive with an invitation to an incredible place that Harry and Lydia will find unforgettable. For it's there that they find not only friends, aerial sports, and magic in everything from classes to meals, but a great destiny that’s been waiting for them… if the twins can survive the encounter. (Philosopher's Stone with Harry's twin sister, Lydia)





	1. And So It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Anything recognizable belongs to J.K. Rowling, I do not own any of her wonderful characters, settings, ideas, etc! The only thing I own is Lydia Potter. All rights belong to J.K.R.

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense. 

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer child anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn’t think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had two small children - twins - but they had never even seen them. The boy and girl were another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn’t want Dudley mixing with children like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley goodbye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. “Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four’s drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar - a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize what he had seen - then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive - no, looking at the sign; cats couldn’t read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes - the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt - these people were obviously collecting for something… yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn’t see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard -”

“ -yes, their twins, Harry and Lydia -”

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whispers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking… no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were plenty of people called Potter who had twin children named Harry and Lydia. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his niece and nephew were named Lydia and Harry. He’d never seen the children. It might’ve been Harvey and Lyla. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her - if he’d had a sister like that… but all the same, those people in cloaks…

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o’clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passerby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!”

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.  
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw - and it didn’t improve his mood - was the tabby cat he’d spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn’t move. It just have him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news.

“And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.” The newscaster allowed himself a grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?”

“Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early - it’s not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.”

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters…

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He’d have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. “Er - Petunia, dear - you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?”

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended   
she didn’t have a sister. 

“No,” she said sharply. “Why?” 

“Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Dursley mumbled. “Owls… shooting stars… and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today…”

“So?” snapped Mrs. Dursley.

“Well, I just thought… maybe… it was something to do with… you know… her crowd.”

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he’d heard the name “Potter.” He decided he didn’t dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, “Their son and daughter - they’d be about Dudley’s age now, wouldn’t they?” 

“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

“What’re their names again? Howard and Linda, isn’t it?”

“Harry and Lydia. Nasty, common names, if you ask me.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. “Yes, I quite agree.”

He didn’t say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did… if it got out that they were related to a pair of - well, he didn’t think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind… He couldn’t see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on - he yawned and turned over - it couldn’t affect them...

How very wrong he was.  
Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no signs of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn’t so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you’d have thought he’d just popped out of the ground. The cat’s tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man’s name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, “I should have known.”

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again - the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn’t be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn’t look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.”

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.  
“How did you know it was me?” she asked.

“My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.”

“You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,” said Professor McGonagall. 

“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.”

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

“Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,” she said impatiently. “You’d think they’d be a bit more careful, but no - even the Muggles have noticed something’s going on. It was on their news.” She jerked her head back at the Dursleys’ dark living room window. “I heard it. Flocks of owls… shooting stars… Well, they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent - I’ll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense.”

“You can’t blame them,” said Dumbledore gently. “We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.”

“I know that,” said Professor McGonagall irritably. “But that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors.”

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn’t, so she went on. “A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?”

“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?”

“A what?”

“A lemon drop. They’re a kind of Muggle sweet I’m rather fond of.”

“No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn’t think this was the moment for lemon drops. “As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone -”  
“My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense - for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort.” Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. “It all gets so confusing if we keep saying ‘You-Know-Who.’ I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort’s name.”

“I know you haven’t,” said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. “But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re the only one You-Know - oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of.”

“You flatter me,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Voldemort had powers I will never have.”

“Only because you’re too - well - noble to use them.”

“It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs.”

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, “The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone’s saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him?”

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as as woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever “everyone” was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

“What they’re saying,” she pressed on, “is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are - are - that they’re - dead.”

 

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

“Lily and James… I can’t believe it… I didn’t want to believe it… Oh, Albus…”

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “I know… I know…” he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went on. “That’s not all. They’re saying he tried to kill the Potters’ son and daughter, Harry and Lydia. But - he couldn’t. He couldn’t kill those two little children. No one knows why, or how, but they’re saying that when he tried to kill the Potter twins, Voldemort’s power somehow broke - and that’s why he’s gone.”

Dumbledore nodded glumly. 

“It’s - it’s true?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After all he’s done… all the people he’s killed… he couldn’t kill a little boy and a little girl? It’s just astounding… of all the things to stop him… but how in the name of heaven did Harry and Lydia survive?”

“We can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “We may never know.” 

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, “Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be here, by the way?”

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here, of all places.

“I’ve come to bring Harry and Lydia to their aunt and uncle. They’re the only family the twins have left now.”

“You don’t mean - you can’t mean the people who live here?” cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. “Dumbledore - you can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got this son - I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry and Lydia Potter come and live here!” 

“It’s the best place for them,” said Dumbledore firmly. “Their aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to them when they’re older. I’ve written them a letter.”

“A letter?” repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. “Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand them! They’ll be famous - a legend - I wouldn’t be surprised if today was known as Potter Day in the future - there will be books written about Harry and Lydia - every child in our world will know their names!” 

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. “It would be enough to turn any child’s head. Famous before they can walk and talk! Famous for something they won’t even remember! Can’t you see how much better off they’ll be, growing up away from all that until they’re ready to take it?”

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, “Yes - yes, you’re right, of course. But how are the children getting here, Dumbledore?” She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding the twins underneath it. 

“Hagrid’s bringing them.”

“You think it - wise - to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?”

“I would trust Hagrid with my life,” said Dumbledore. 

“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, “but you can’t pretend he’s not careless. He does tend to - what was that?”

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky - and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding one large bundle of blankets.

“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?”

“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got them sir.”

“No problems, were there?”

“No, sir - house was almost destroyed, but I got them out all right before the Muggles started swarmin’ around. They both fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol.”  
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, were a baby boy and a baby girl, fast asleep. Under the boy’s tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning. His sister had an identical cut, partially hidden by some strands of her red hair. Her lightning-shaped cut was in almost the same spot as her brother, just above her left eye.

“Is that where - ?” whispered Professor McGonagall.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “They’ll have those scars forever.”

“Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well - give them here, Hagrid - we’d better get this over with.”

Dumbledore took Harry and Lydia in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys’ house.

“Could I - could I say goodbye to them, sir?” asked Hagrid. He bent his great shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. He repeated the action with Lydia. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

“Shhh!” hissed Professor McGonagall, “you’ll wake the Muggles!”

“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it - Lily an’ James dead - an’ poor little Harry and Lydia off ter live with Muggles -”

“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we’ll be found,” Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid the Harry and Lydia gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside the twins’ blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid’s shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out.

“Well,” said Dumbledore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.”

“Yeah,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, “I’ll be takin’ Sirius his bike back. G’night, Professor McGonagall - Professor Dumbledore, sir.”

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine to life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

“I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,” said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of large blankets on the step of number four.

“Good luck, Harry and Lydia,” he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside the blankets without waking up. One of Lydia Potter’s small hands grasped her brother’s and they both slept on, not knowing they were special, not knowing they were famous, not knowing they would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs. Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that they would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by their cousin Dudley… They couldn’t know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: “To Harry and Lydia Potter - the children who lived!”


	2. The Twins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anything recognizable belongs to J.K. Rowling, I do not own any of her wonderful characters, settings, ideas, etc! The only thing I own is Lydia Potter. All rights belong to J.K.R.

Up! Get up! Now!”

I flipped onto my stomach and buried my head underneath my pillow. My Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice was not what I wanted to hear first thing in the morning. Or any other time of the day, really.

As Aunt Petunia screeched “Up!” once more, I tried to find my dream again. It had been one of my better ones; it’d been about a flying motorcycle. Although, the dream had seemed awfully familiar…

I felt my arm being shaken then. I shrugged it off and hugged my pillow tighter. The shaking started up again, though; and this time there was a voice with it. “Come on, Lyds. Time to get up.”

“Go ‘way,” I murmured, pushing at my brother.

Suddenly my blankets were pushed away and my pillow lifted up, only to come back down and hit me in the head.

I sat up quickly and shouted, “Harry Potter!”

Harry barely even tried to hide his smirk. I threw my pillow at him, but he only laughed.

Our aunt rapped on the door again. “Are you two up yet?” she demanded.

“Nearly,” I said as I rubbed sleep out of my eyes.

“Well, get a move on. I want everything perfect on Duddy’s birthday.”

Harry and I groaned.

“What was that?” Aunt Petunia snapped through the door.

“Nothing,” we said.

I could hear Aunt Petunia walking away.

“Dudley’s birthday,” Harry groaned. “How could we have forgotten?”

“Maybe because we don’t care?” I suggested.

Harry smiled, then grabbed my hands and pulled me up.

We dressed quickly in the cramped space, our backs to each other.

Harry handed me a pair of socks he dug out from underneath his bed after pulling a spider off one. The two of us were all too used to spiders since the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where we slept.

Once we were dressed we went down the hall into the kitchen. The table was practically hidden beneath all of Dudley’s birthday presents. It looked like Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, as well as the second television and the racing bike. Why on Earth Dudley wanted a racing bike was a mystery, as he was very fat and hated exercise - unless it included punching somebody. His favorite punching bags were me and Harry, but he often couldn’t catch either of us. We didn’t look it, but my brother and I were very fast.

Maybe it had something to do with living in a small dark cupboard, as Harry and I have always been small and skinny for our age. Not to mention the fact that all we had to wear was old clothes of Dudley’s - he was about four times bigger than us - which made us look even small and skinner.

For twins, Harry and I didn’t look very much alike. Harry had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair that refused to lie flat, and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses held together with Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had punched him on the nose.

My face was slightly rounder than my brother’s, my hair was a deep shade of red, and I had hazel eyes and several freckles across my nose. The only features that made me and Harry look related were our noses and the shape of our eyes.

The only thing either of us liked about our appearances were the thin lightning bolt-shaped scars we had on our heads. Harry’s was on his forehead and mine was just above my left eye. We’d had them for as long as we could remember. In fact, if memory serves, the first question Harry ever asked was how we’d gotten them.

“In the car crash when your parents died,” Aunt Petunia had said. “And don’t ask questions.

Don’t ask questions… that was the first of many rules for a quiet life with the Dursleys.

Uncle Vernon entered the room as Harry was turning over the bacon and I was cracking an egg into the frying pan.

“Comb your hair, boy! Don’t roll your eyes at me, girl!” This was our uncle’s standard morning greeting.

About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his newspaper and shouted that Harry needed a haircut, which always caused me to roll my eyes at him. Harry must have had more haircuts than the rest of the kids in our class put together, but it made no difference, his hair just grew all over the place. Uncle Vernon should know that by now.

Harry and I had finished with breakfast by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with Aunt Petunia. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon; he had a large pink face, not much neck, small watery blue eyes and thick blonde hair that lay smoothly on his thick, fat head. 

Me and Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was tricky since there wasn’t much room. Meanwhile, Dudley was counting his presents. Once he’d finished, his face fell.

“Thirty-six,” he said, looking up at his parents.

I leaned into Harry and whispered to him, “When did he learn to count so high?” That caused Harry to snigger, and I quickly joined in.

Uncle Vernon gave the two of us a sharp, nasty look. Harry quieted and looked down while I pressed my lips together.

Dudley continued with his present inquisition. “That’s two less than last year,”

“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see, it’s here under this big one from Mummy and Daddy.”

“All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red in the face.

Harry and I shared a worried look. We knew the signs of Hurricane Dudley. We both started wolfing down our breakfast as fast as we could. It wouldn’t be the first time Dudley had turned the table over during one of his tantrums.

Aunt Petunia must have been able to sense the coming danger as well, because she quickly said, “And we’ll buy another two presents while we’re out today. How’s that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that alright?”

Dudley thought for a moment. I thought his head might explode from all the effort. Finally he said, “So I’ll have thirty… thirty….”

“Thirty-nine, sweetums,” Aunt Petunia said.

“Oh,” Dudley sat down and grabbed the nearest parcel. “All right then.”

Uncle Vernon chuckled. “Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father. ‘Atta boy, Dudley!” He ruffled Dudley’s hair as I rolled my eyes again.

Just then the telephone rang. Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Uncle Vernon, Harry and I watched as Dudley unwrapped his many presents. I guaranteed half of them would be broken within the week. Dudley had just ripped the paper off a golden wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone, a sour expression on her face.

“Bad news, Vernon,” she said. “Mrs. Figg’s broken her leg. She can’t take them.” She jerked her head in mine and Harry’s direction.

Dudley’s mouth fell open in horror while I shared a hopeful look with my brother. Every year on Dudley’s birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the movies. Every year, Harry and I were left behind with Mrs. Figg, a mad old lady who lived two streets away. We hated it there. The entire house smelled of cabbage and Mrs. Figg made us both look at photographs of all the cats she’d ever owned.

“Now what?” said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at me and Harry, as though we had planned this.

“We could phone Marge,” Uncle Vernon suggested.

“Don’t be silly, Vernon, she hates the twins,”  
My hands and jaw clenched in anger.

I could handle the way the Dursleys spoke about me and Harry - as if we weren’t in the room. I could put up with the way they looked at us - as if we were nasty slugs.

I felt Harry put his arm around my shoulders and give me a brief hug. I felt myself relax and gave him a tight smile. He knew how much I hated it when we were referred to as “the twins.” Like we were some joint being and not two separate individuals.

“What about what’s-her-name, your friend - Yvonne?”

“On vacation in Majorca,” Aunt Petunia snapped.

“You could just leave us here,” Harry put in. I could hear the hope in his voice.

Aunt Petunia looked as though she’d just swallowed a lemon.

“And come back and find the house in ruins?” she snarled.

“We wouldn’t blow up the house,” Harry and I said (we had a habit of talking in unison every now and then), but they weren’t listening.

“I suppose we could take them to the zoo,” said Aunt Petunia slowly, “... and leave them in the car…”

“That car’s new, they’re not sitting in it alone…”

Dudley started crying loudly. Well, he wasn’t actually crying, but - the spoiled brat that he was - he knew that if he screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted.

“Dinky Duddydums, don’t cry, Mummy won’t let them spoil your special day!” Aunt Petunia cried, flinging her arms around him.

“I… don’t… want… them…. t-t-to come!” Dudley yelled between huge, fake sobs. “They always sp-spoil everything!” He shot me and Harry and nasty grin through the gap in his mother’s arms.

Just then, the doorbell rang. “Oh, good Lord, they’re here!” Aunt Petunia said frantically. A moment later, Dudley’s best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once.

Piers was a scrawny boy with a face like a rat. His personality was the same as his face - unpleasant. He was usually the one who held people’s arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them.

By some stroke of luck, half an hour later, Harry and I were sitting in the back of the Dursleys car with Piers and Dudley, on the way to the zoo for the very first time. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon hadn’t been able to think of anything to do with us, but before we’d left, Uncle Vernon had taken me and Harry aside.

“I’m warning you,” he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to mine and Harry’s. “I’m warning you now, you two - any funny business, anything at all - and you’ll be in the cupboard from now until Christmas.”

“We’re not going to do anything,” said Harry, “honestly…”

I stayed quiet. I knew from experience how pointless it was to try to convince Uncle Vernon we would behave. He didn’t believe us, not today or any other day. No one ever did.

The trouble was, strange things often happened around Harry and me - whether at the same time or separately - and it was just no use telling the Dursleys neither of us made them happen.

Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the barbers looking as though he hadn’t been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair so short he was almost bald; except for his bangs, which she left to “hide that horrible scar.” That night, Harry and I both slept very little, him obviously worrying about how everyone at school would laugh at him the next day. I, meanwhile, was planning what exactly I would do to those that tried to make fun of my brother. However, the next morning, we got up to discover that Harry’s hair was exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia sheared it off. Not only had Harry been given a week in the cupboard for this but so had I! Even though I insisted there was no way either Harry or I could’ve made his hair grow back so quickly.

Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force me into a ghastly old sweater of Dudley’s (brown with orange puff balls). The harder she tried to pull it over my head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it could have fitted a hand puppet, but certainly wouldn’t fit me. Aunt Petunia decided it must have shrunk in the wash and, miraculously, I was not punished.

Sometimes things got even weirder, though. Like when Dudley’s gang had been chasing us as usual when, as much a surprise to me and Harry as everyone else, there we were sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had received a very angry letter from the headmistress telling them Harry and I had been climbing school buildings. Harry thought that the wind must have caught us in mid-jump.

Today, though, nothing was going to go wrong. It was actually worth putting up with Dudley and Piers in order to spend the day somewhere that wasn’t school, our cupboard, or Mrs. Figg’s cabbage-smelling house.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He enjoyed complaining about things: people at work, Harry, the council, me, the bank and Harry and me were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning, though, it was motorcycles.

“...roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums,” he said as a motorcycle overtook us.

“I had a dream about a motorcycle,” Harry said suddenly.

“Me, too!” I said excitedly. This was a regular thing with us; we often had the same dreams. “Was it flying?’

“Yeah,” Harry smiled and nodded.

Uncle Vernon very nearly crashed into the car in front of us. He turned around in his seat and yelled at me and Harry, his face resembling a giant beet with a mustache. “MOTOTCYCLES DON’T FLY!”

Dudley and Piers sniggered together. Prats. 

“I know they don’t,” Harry said.

“It was only a dream,” we spoke together. 

Bollocks. I wish I hadn’t said anything about the motorcycle flying. If there was one thing the Dursleys hated even more than me and Harry asking questions, it was our talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn’t; they seemed to think we might get dangerous ideas.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance and then, because the smiling lady in the van had asked Harry and I what we wanted before they could hurry us away, they brought us both cheap lemon ice pops. It wasn’t bad, either. Harry and I smiled at each other about our good fortune. 

A few minutes later, I drew Harry’s attention to a gorilla scratching its head. “Doesn’t he look an awful lot like Dudley?” I asked him.

Harry chuckled and told me, “Only he’s not blonde,”

We burst into a fit of laughter.

This was the best morning I’d had in a long time, possibly ever. Harry and I were careful to walk a few feet apart from the Dursleys so that Dudley and Piers, who were starting to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, wouldn’t fall back on their favorite hobby of hitting them.

We ate in the zoo restaurant and when Dudley had a tantrum (no surprise there) because his knickerbocker glory didn’t have enough ice cream on top, Uncle Vernon brought him another one and me and Harry were allowed to finished the first.

I should’ve known it was too good to last.

After lunch we went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark inside, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all kinds of lizards were crawling and slithering over pieces of wood and stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon’s car and crushed it into a trash can, but at the moment it didn’t look up to it. In fact, it was fast asleep.

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils.

“Make it move,” he whined to his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the glass, but the snake didn’t budge.

“Do it again,” Dudley demanded. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass briskly with his knuckles, but the snake slept on.

“This is boring,” Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.

Harry and I moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it had died of boredom - I know I would have. No company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to wake me up; at least I was allowed to visit the rest of the house.

“Sorry about him” Harry told the snake. 

“He’s a git.” I added.

Suddenly, the snake opened its beady eyes. Slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level Harry’s and mine.

It winked.

I stared wide-eyed. Harry looked around quickly to see if anyone was watching, but I was unable to take my eyes off the snake. Harry and I shared a look. It was one of those moments when we were thinking the same thing. We both winked back at the snake.

The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave us a look that clearly said: “I get that all the time.”

“I know,” Harry murmured through the glass, though the snake couldn’t hear him… could it? “It must be really annoying.”

The snake nodded vigorously.

“Where do you come from, anyway?” Harry asked.

The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Harry and I peered at him.

BOA CONSTRICTOR, BRAZIL

“Was it nice there?” I asked the boa constrictor. It jabbed its tail at the sign, which read on: This specimen was bred in the zoo. “So you’ve never been to Brazil?”

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout from behind made me and Harry jump.

“DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME HERE AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT IT’S DOING!”

Dudley come waddling after Piers, towards us.

“Out of the way, you two,” he said punching Harry in the ribs while Piers pushed me backwards. My landing was softer than the one Harry made on the concrete floor - but only because I landed on Harry. I slid off of him and sat there on the floor for a bit, stewing. I took several deep breaths; I needed to calm down or I was going to set my new snake friend onto those two prats.

I’m not sure how it happened, but one second, Piers and Dudley were leaning right up next to the glass, and the next, they lept back with howls of horror. 

The glass in front of the boa constrictor’s tank had... vanished. The large snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and ran for the exits.

As the snake slid swiftly away, I could have sworn I heard a low, hissing voice say, “Brazil, here I come… Thanksss, amigosss.”

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock. “But the glass,” he kept saying. “Where did the glass go?”

The zoo director made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong, sweet tea while he apologized over and over again. Piers and Dudley could only gibber. All the snake had done was snap playfully at their heels as it passed, but by the time we were all back in Uncle Vernon’s car, Dudley was telling us all how it’d nearly bitten his leg off, while Piers swore it had tried to squeeze him to death. If only.

But the worst part was when Piers had calmed down enough to say, “Harry and Lydia were talking to it, weren’t you?”

Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house before he started in on Harry and me. He was so angry, he could barely speak. He did manage to get out a few words. “Go - cupboard - stay - no meals,” Then he collapsed into a chair and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy.

Much later, Harry and I lay in our dark cupboard, whispering to each other.

“Wish I had a watch,” said.

I didn’t have to ask him why. I knew what he was thinking about (I always did); it was the same thing I was thinking about. Food. “Just wait a few more hours, then we’ll sneak down to the kitchen,”

My brother and I had lived with the Dursleys almost ten years - ten horrible, miserable years. We’d been here for as long as I could remember, ever since we’d been babies and our parents had died in that car crash. When we’d been younger, Harry and I had talked all the time about some unknown relative coming to take us away, but it never happened; the Dursleys were our only family, if you could call them that. k.

All Harry and I had was each other. We didn’t have anyone at school. Everybody knew that Dudley’s gang hated odd Harry and Lydia Potter with their baggy clothes and weird identical scars, and nobody disagreed with Dudley’s gang.


End file.
